


All Good Things

by orphan_account



Category: Code Lyoko, Code Lyoko Evolution
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tonight she's going to forget it all, give herself over to something utterly physical. Something simple, comforting and pure."</p>
<p>Set during Code Lyoko Evolution, after the episode 'Rendez-vous'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with the implication that Jérémie and Aelita are a few years older than in the series but it may still be squicky to some readers due to cultural differences, hence the tag. It's been a while since I wrote any smut at all but I felt the need to get back into the spirit of it. Thanks to Gummibar for encouraging me to get my arse in gear and actually finish something.

_I hate you._

 

Those words are what she's trying to mend now. When she kisses him - soft, shy and as slowly as the very first time, as though she's trying to commit every detail to memory - he tastes the salt at the corner of her lips.

 

Aelita's eyes are wide and red-rimmed, tears clinging to lower lashes which stand out darkly against a face pale and vulnerable now that she's wiped her make-up away. She is open and vulnerable, and deeply sad, and Jérémie feels the hitch of her warm breath on his neck, the swell of her breasts pressed flush against his chest as two heartbeats coalesce into one soothing rhythm.

 

And it's cold, of course, but he's still surprised, with how alive and close she is, that she's shivering.

 

The Hermitage smells of damp foliage, of moss and mould and soil. The outside world has crept in through the shattered windows, where vines clamber freely along the sill and nature claims this once homely structure of plaster and red brick for its very own. They've walked here beneath a pale blue sky touched with pinkish gold, an almost-sunset lighting their way through a cover of trees. It's a familiar path that they've followed, one worn in by hundreds of footsteps, marked out by flattened grass and straggling flowers. The air is thick with scent and memory.

 

It's not the ideal place, in light of all that's happened, but it's better in many ways than the factory, with its unforgiving cold floors and ceilings where even the faintest sounds are carried up in conspicuous echoes.

 

They didn't say much of anything on the way here, simply fell into step side by side, their brushing shoulders a prelude to the shy clasping of hands. It was only when they crossed the threshold of the broken doorway that something in Aelita crumbled, a sudden jolt of emotion unblocking a dam and giving way to floods of unsuppressed tears. Grief, helplessness, despondence that the world she has ached to be part of for so long has betrayed her.

 

"Don't cry," he had told her.

 

"Don't tell me what to do," she had mumbled into his shirt.

 

He had conceded the point, nodding, and had held her - relieved that she let him - swaying with her slightly in the front room of the old house. He had listened with his eyes squeezed shut as desperate, choking gasps subsided into raw-throated sniffles.

 

Now, Jérémie's voice is low, a near-inaudible whisper as his chin rests on her shoulder. His breath is warm on the raised hairs of her neck, a strangely intimate place, and the sound of Aelita's own name tickles her ear.

 

"Are you okay?" Jérémie asks her. His hands slide with hesitation beneath the fabric of Aelita's shirt, where they rest for a moment, his thumbs making slow, absent circles against her skin. A shudder runs through her but she nods and arches gladly into the touch; he knows the curve her back makes, knows the lines and plains of this body almost as well as he knows his own.

 

In the course of today she's run from him, yelled at him, told him she hated him. Poured her fears and apologies tearfully against the fabric of his shirt and leaned against him until her breathing slowed. Now she winds her arms around him, yet another unspoken apology, and is content just to hold him. Both of them have missed this and they realise suddenly just how much - it's these embraces, these linking of hands on walks between classes and pecks on cheeks as they take their adjacent seats at lunch, that age has changed from childlike innocence to behaviour that the Kadic faculty watches with a sharp eye and a permanent chaperone. These moments that were once routine have shifted towards stolen luxuries, echoes of the closeness they used to share.

 

That's why they're here.

 

  
The soft kiss gives way to a fiercer one, something raw and so obviously filled with the desire for closeness that it makes Jérémie's heart ache, and  as Aelita grips fistfuls of his shirt in her hands he  freezes, an automatic response in a body already  racked  with tension. Her hands relax, with effort, to spread over his back, where she's surprised to feel the knotted muscles of his shoulders. It's like a memory in physical form, that painful tautness - it tells of a repeat cycle of sleepless nights hunched over a computer chair, of a mouth that's beginning to forget how to smile, of lying awake against a dormitory-room headboard and worrying, worrying. It represents everything they're becoming and everything they thought they'd left behind.   


 

Aelita wants to feel angry, to embrace an all too easy rage at the unfairness of it all, but finds that the energy for it eludes her. She's worn out on anger, she realises, and on resentment, and fear.

 

Jérémie releases a slow, deep exhale and Aelita rubs his back gently, trying to ease out the tension with soothing circles, but she can tell by the tough set of his jaw, pressed still against her shoulder blade, that she's doing more harm than good.

 

She thinks that perhaps she can't touch him without hurting him.

 

Not any more.

 

It's a moment before Aelita realises that Jérémie is repeating her name.

 

"Aelita. Aelita?"

 

"Hm."

 

"We don't have to do this. You're upset, and-"

 

Her answer is to kiss him for the third time, to draw him in to deep, urgent melding of tongues which leaves them room, afterwards, only for breathless gasping. Usually they talk more – these things are full of talking, the nervous whispered reassurances of their first time, and every time since. Snatches of names, of “yes, there,” and “should I keep going”-

 

Now all Aelita says is, "Please. We do."

 

Unspoken is,  _I want to forget_ , but he seems to understand.

 

Her hands move deftly to open his shirt and they stumble in a tangle of limbs until they're at the threadbare sofa, their combined weight pressing creakily into its blanket-strewn cushions.

 

In another time and place Aelita would have been here with the room fully furnished, a movie unwatched on t.v. and the explorations of hands and mouths furtive and muffled, everything underlain with urgency sparked by the presence of parents in the next room. It hurts too much to think about (no matter how much she tries to rationalise everything - that at least it's not the chapel where she'll never go again, that there are other, better, newer memories here) so she loses herself instead in planting kisses along Jérémie's collarbone, in taking off his glasses and placing them somewhere off to the side; then she's dipping her head once more to suck at a sensitive spot at the hollow of his throat, the one that always draws that low moan from him, a sound almost too erotic and obscene to be coming from Jérémie's mouth.

 

She's focusing on him, growing increasingly oblivious to the possibility of getting caught, to the sad creakiness of the old house, but making muffled pleasured sounds of her own as his hands reach up to cup the hot, heavy weight of her breasts in his palms. Jérémie's hands stumble over her shirt buttons, his lips forming a small 'oh' of surprise as the fabric opens immediately onto pale flesh, no interlude of a bra between his hands and soft, feminine curves.

 

Ever more experienced hands run the length of her exposed upper body, full breasts and small waist; probing hands lightly pinch her nipples between finger and thumb, sending pain twisting into pleasure in tiny sparks of lightning bolts up the base of her spine and she makes the tiniest sound of surprise and encouragement. He kisses her there, shyly, still surprised that he  _can_ , and the tips of her fingers run fondly through his mussed hair.

 

They pause, draw back, catch one another's eye.

 

"Okay?"

 

"Okay."

 

She savours the pause, the anticipation of what's to come building in her chest. They're sitting angled slightly apart from one another but she makes sure that their knees still touch and her fingers rest lightly on his forearm. Aelita feels Jérémie's gaze on her body and in turn she takes him in, skinny and slightly hunched over, oddly appealing in his paleness; she loves the dips and curves of his torso, the tiny mole below his collarbone that she's sure only she has ever seen.

 

On an unspoken cue, Jérémie leans forward and pushes Aelita's open shirt from her shoulders; fabric slides down her forearms to loosely hold her wrists behind her, fabric shackles that she doesn't bother to escape from as his hands drift lower to the hem of her skirt. For a moment, as Jérémie's hand pushes the material away and his fingertips dip down past the elastic of her underwear, Aelita thinks that she might stay like this, float up and out of herself on little thrilling waves of pleasure, let time stand still and relieve her all of all control for a moment that could become forever. She might shrink away from the stresses of her life, this flawed, code-infected, gullible, angry self, this self who told Jérémie she hated him; she might give up and drift loose, let go...

 

Until Jérémie's mouth presses against her own her own, his hands reaching behind them to find hers and unwind the shirt from her wrists, and in doing so pull her gently back to where she is meant to be.

 

She nods to him, gives the barest hint of a smile, which he shyly returns. This time when his hand reaches downwards it's with her guidance, and whilst her skirt and underwear slip down her legs to pool somewhere on the floor, his fingers brush over coarse pink hair only to slide suddenly against the place where she needs him most. She moans her gratification against his mouth and he crooks one finger inside her, then at her instruction adds another. She's slick and wet, all pink folds of warm moist flesh as she rocks into him, a slightly clumsy rhythm. And then Jérémie sinking to his knees before her as a humbled mortal before a goddess; she spreads her legs eagerly for him and he dips his head, his fingertips making indents on the sweetly damp flesh of her thighs.

 

He plants a lingering kiss there and breathes in the rich, musky scent of her, eyes closed as he concentrates hard.

 

Jérémie would like to pretend he can understand the depth of what Aelita is feeling. He's afraid, really, that she thinks he doesn't notice, or care, and he knows how much Laura's presence upsets her. Between Laura and the spectre, the world seems to be doing everything it can to throw Aelita off balance. Now, Jérémie tells himself, he's going to show her how important she is, how she's the centre of his world in so many ways, and he can only hope she'll believe it.

 

His tongue slides over her exposed body and he forgets all the prudish embarrassment of where he is, what he's doing, focusing only on mapping out the plains of her entrance with his tongue, which he presses first wide and flat against her, then angles inside her and then, mindful of his teeth in such close proximity to such a sensitive part of her, sucks hard on the swollen bud of her clit. His tongue moves with growing precision, pressing deep, twisting and probing and drinking deeply of her, relishing the shudders and gasps he leaves in his wake. Her knees are bent for better purchase, fingers scrabbling at the sofa.

 

He flicks her clit with his tongue, hard – the movement sends a spasm through her and her thighs jerk awkwardly. He looks up, catching her eye; suddenly they're both laughing, suppressed fits of nervous giggles that bring back the warm rush of nervous elation that accompanied their first time. His is as much to do with this as it is relief to see Aelita smiling, and it's released in hot breath against her, until she is shuddering just as much with need as with subsiding laughter.

 

This is everything that she needs.

 

In this briefest of interims, coherent thought spills in and everything she's trying to block out threatens to bubble up to the surface. Images of monsters bearing her mother's face, Laura sitting in a chair she has no right to be sitting in, the venomous strands of pride and malice snaking through everything she used to be.

 

Aelita focuses on the sensation of Jérémie's lips against her inner thigh, fights her way back to the present moment.

 

Tonight she's going to forget it all, give herself over to something utterly physical. Something simple, comforting and pure.

 

"Please," she breathes, as much to herself as to Jérémie as she unconsciously moves her body against him.

 

And then once more he forgets himself entirely, ignoring the throbbing heat in his own groin, becoming lost in the appraisal and exploration of Aelita's body. His technique improves every time - Jérémie is nothing if not attentive to detail and each time he makes love to Aelita is a lesson in how to please her better; he takes careful note of which parts of her ache most deeply for his touch, which sweeps of his tongue transform into shudders and gasps, which movements make her body clench and which make her throw back her head.

 

She's so caught up in the moment – and  _he's doing this to her, for her_ , says a voice in the back of his mind with a surge of pride – that she doesn't realise how forcefully she's grinding against him, pressed up against his nose and face, hungry as she is for more force, more friction. With a persistent sweeping of tongue over clit he presses towards that tight, exquisitely unbearable coil of tension... and then suddenly he  _feels_  the climax rippling through her, the clenching of her whole body as her mind, for a split second, goes blank with white-hot ecstasy, and she is the entire world, just for one blissful moment – and then her ragged breaths renting the air as she relaxes, almost sliding down the sofa so he has to reach up an arm to steady her. He plants one final kiss upon her and then draws back to meet her half-lidded gaze.

 

His eyes are huge and blue in the last rays of the dying sun, his lips swollen and wet and parted slightly as breaths leave him in tiny pants of exertion.

 

Aelita adores him suddenly, and leans down to cup his face in her hands she kisses him deeply, tasting herself on his tongue, pressing their lips together almost possessively. (No, she thinks, Laura, XANA, spectres and ghosts have no place here.)

 

He pulls away, still breathless. Jérémie has yet to smile, expression still laced with anxiety.

 

“Was that- okay?”

 

She almost laughs again, still fizzing with the high of the climax and a vague settling feeling in her gut that she'll later recognise as reassurance. She nods, and thanks him and at last he smiles. She's hot and sticky, light from the cracked window pane behind them capturing the slight sheen of sweat glistening on her body. To Jérémie, climbing up to sit beside her, Aelita never been more beautiful.

 

“Jérémie-”

 

The sound becomes muffled in further kisses, broken only by necessity between the removal of the rest of their clothes. Pushing aside Jérémie's underwear she takes him in her hands; it's a strange and gratifying sensation to feel him harden beneath her fingertips, to feel the little shudders and twitches as she caresses him. He's mumbling her name with eyes closed and parted lips and she just about remembers to lather her hands with spit before she runs them along his length. She bends to kiss him, slick shiny head tasting of salt and musk, but his hand on her shoulder stops her. She studies him questioningly and as much as he desires the wet cavern of his mouth around her, he wants Aelita's gratification more. So, he shakes his head and they move with fumbling hands and deep blushes to roll the condom over him. There's something so clinical and technical about this side of things; Aelita's thoughts drift as her hands go through the motions of it. It strikes her suddenly,  _I'm going to have sex with him_ , and the thought, so starkly placed against the abstract swirl of her thoughts, sends a thrill of lust pulsing through her.

 

They rearrange themselves on the sofa, him spreading his weight carefully over her with his elbows supporting him. With the one hand still closed around him, she guides him into her and draws a long breath as he enters. She shivers and he pauses, letting her adjust to the width of him inside her.

 

“I don't – hate you,” she gasps, as he pushes slowly into her. His reply is muffled and incoherent against her shoulder. “I don't – I don't-” and she repeats it like a mantra with every long, slow thrust as he draws all the way out of her before filling her again. Her heart is hammering, her skin and nerve-endings on fire; the air between them is a clumsy tangle of hot breath and noises, lips to lips and skin to skin, as she shifts her hips to meet his movements, one hand gripping his hair and the other reaching between them to rub her clit.

 

It's a while before she realises he's saying something back, and that that something is - “I know, I know.”

 

And oh, how  _could_  she hate him, how could she doubt him, or blame him, when their bodies meld together like this-  _AelitaandJérémie, JérémieandAelita -_  and it's beautiful, pure and beautiful as their first time, as their first kiss, as her first footstep on Earth; it's taking her back to times when everything was fresh and exciting and new, a world of warmth and sensation and sound when there was no anger or endless hatred.

 

They shower one another with adoration, caresses and kisses in the setting sun – it's frantic and clumsy, sweaty, sticky, even romantic, and a little brightness seeps back into Aelita's world, hope as vivid as the spots of colour behind her tightly closed eyes.

 

She can feel the heat from his body, the cold evening air long forgotten. Layers of pleasure build on top of one another, time dissolving, unwinding, drawing out into one long series of moments. They increase the pace, soundless communication shifting their rhythm to a frantic bucking. The tight coil of pressure builds up again in the pit of her stomach, to release in one long gratified moan that Jérémie captures with his mouth. Her tight, wet heat around him sends him tumbling after her; she feels him spilling inside her and their hands wind together at either side of them, nothing separating their spent bodies but one thin sheet of latex. He shudders in his own afterglow then withdraws his softening length slowly, little by little.

 

They lie there long after their breathing evens out. Reality is calling them back, to the challenge of sneaking back into Kadic without getting caught, to the programming and reconfiguring that faces them tomorrow, intertwined with all the most ordinary of life's challenges, but a little while longer they'll ignore it.

 

Aelita wraps her slender, naked body around him. Jérémie's head finds a comfortable place in the crook of her shoulder and he lies against her. When she rubs circles in his upper back, she finds, at last, that the tension gone.

 

Through the ruined glass window, through drooping eyelids, Aelita watches the dark expanse of the woods spark to life with the light of fireflies.

 

And, hoarsely, she tells Jérémie that she loves him.

 


End file.
